Fall
by Vux
Summary: Hours before his confrontation with England in Yorktown, America tries not to think. But the rain brings back visions, and he is soon lost in his memories, feeling the strange surge that comes with them.


Written for the 2011 Summer Camp Event at the USXUK Livejournal community. This was for day 23's prompt, "Rain".

Originally published July 23rd 2011. Slightly revised early 2012.

Fall

The rain falls here.

Many miles away, across the fields, through the hills, and under a tree, the rain also falls.

He feels the rain fall around him. He sits, back propped against a tree, and waits for a certain call: the call to push aside the illusions plaguing his mind; to ignore his murky surroundings; to march out at the bugle's call to the battlefield; to face you, his younger brother, with his bayonet raised high, and a battle cry, and a muffled sob, and shoot you.

He inhales and places his hand on the tree behind him, absentmindedly clawing at the dampened bark. He has a lot to think about right now, but isn't sure exactly what to think. He is not thinking. Or, he is trying not to. In this moment he wishes nothing more than to have his thoughts numbed by the rain. His eyes fall to the dirt in front of him, and he stares intensely at it, but you can tell that he is not staring at rubble; his glazed-over eyes cannot possibly be taking in their surroundings. Instead, he is watching at a story, pieced together by his active and strangely dormant mind. The pebbles, actors in his own little play, are mixing with water and dirt. They change before his eyes, slowly beginning to show him pictures. He watches as the pictures shift and turn and mix with his thoughts, animating themselves into scenes of times he longs for, but are long since gone.

He is feeling emotions from both his happiest and saddest memories, with perhaps a bit of anger thrown in-between. This you know, though you are not sure how.

You are miles away, under a tree, doing the exact same thing. You are not thinking. Or, you are trying not to. You do not want to think of the past, and you'd actually prefer to not think of the present either. Right now, that damned call to head into battle is the only thing you care to hear. At least, then, you won't have to think; at least, then, it won't be like this; staring at the ground, trying to ignore his commands, his laugh, his advice, his comments—ever the critic—in the back of your head. You don't want to hear his voice, nor do not want his influence. He is a hypocrite in the purest sense, afterall, and you want no part in his ways. You do not want to be his brother. You do not want to be his friend. Not his child. Not his colony. You don't want a bond between you. You doubt you will ever want one again.

You are definitely not crying.

The camp remains eerily silent, the sound of movement and the bugle still absent from the air. So your focus remains unbroken, and the dirt becomes the sole focal point your concentration. You watch as the sticks in front of you fall together to form an open meadow, and you watch as water floods between them, placing a rabbit in the scene's center. You watch as the rabbit furrows its nose and hops; first once, then again, then again, this time edging closer to your position. You watch as its fur becomes a mess of rain and mud. As the rabbit starts to wash away, you close your eyes in thought.

Suddenly, the rabbit is much clearer.

The light is blinding now, reflecting off the wheat and barley stalks of your fields. The rabbit, now a dark brown blur, is coming in and out of sight. You stumble on occasion as you chase it through the stalks of grain, but you carry an aura that shields you from truly caring for your faults. These are your days. These are your nights. These fields have been your playground for decades, and your home for even longer; there is no time, to your knowledge, when you have spent days doing anything other than run these plains.

The rabbit hops one last time and lands in its burrow, and you stumble one last time, hands resting near the burrow's entrance. Eyes brimming with glee and curiosity, you smile.

And then there are voices. Odd creatures appear off in the distance making noises you simply cannot understand, and staring at you with emotions you simply cannot read. Invaders in your land; these creatures are foreign. Somehow, they seem both ominous and loud.

You are absolutely terrified.

You push yourself up, paying no heed to the stalks you crush while running. You get as far away from the field as you can manage, and a far-off tree's branches quickly become your new hideout. You press your head to the tree. You don't look back.

But then you are back. You watch the strangers silently from your bush, vision obscured just enough to warrant more curiosity, but not enough to produce fear. You watch as they sit in circle, a fire cackling between them as they laugh, drink, and push one another about. They whisper, then yell, then talk, then yell louder. Hours pass and still they remain huddle together in discussion. Some of them are silent, while some seem to steal the fire's light. You are mesmerized by the one currently stealing the show; he is standing alone with his back to the fire, his arms raised in victory as those around him applaud. You smile. You want to be around him, just to see him shine.

But no, you realize. That's not true. You don't want to be around him, you want to _be_ him. You want to draw the attention of those around you. You want to be showered in affection and compliments; to be the reason those around you smile and laugh in company. You stand on your toes in an eager attempt to see more, but, in the fit of excitement, you fall. The branches around you crack, and you realize your mistake too late.

All is silent for a moment as one of the group members—one of the silent ones you had been paying no heed to—turns and gets up. You start to tremble as he walks towards your hiding place; he is much taller than you, probably stronger, and would simply be able to outmatch you in a fight.

He appears to be looking directly at you, but stops several feet short of your hiding place. Your eyes meet his for a moment and then he looks around you, as if searching for some wild animal. He waits a moment more, then turns his back to you and returns to the campfire.

In pure relief, you start to cry.

And now, the same man is returning through a cabin door. You are still crying, but for a different reason.

You are taller now, and a bit smarter. You've learned his language; his once unintelligible yells have instead become words; his customs, his culture, his kindness, your own.

But you don't back away from him now. He stands in front of the doorway, his battered condition an increasingly familiar sight. His arms hang limp, and there is a bandaged wound tight around his left leg. You wonder where the wounds are from, but hold your tongue, having learned long ago that your caretaker does not respond well to such questions. Your concern doesn't appear to matter anyway, as he seems to feel no pain, staggering forward with his head held high and wearing no expresion but a pleasant smile. You feel your shoulder clasped as he greets you, and see him make a motion towards the door. You nod to him and then walk outside.

"Once," he claims, pointing to a rifle laying on the front porch, "this rifle belonged to me. However, given recent events I feel as if new owner might be appropriate."

He picks it up and pauses for a moment, as if he is just now noticing your tears. He says nothing, but places the weapon firmly your hands.

"Try hitting that tree."

You fire the rifle.

Thunder crashes from above as you clutch his rifle closer to your chest. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and your head is bowed to the rain. You don't like him. Of course you don't. You don't like his mannerisms, his lies, his rules, his morals... no. Nothing. Nothing of his. Not even his smile.

And you are certainly not crying.

Why won't the bugle sound?

You jerk your head back and try to block everything out, your head hitting the tree hard. You can do little but watch as the rock falling onto the dirt in front of you becomes your cabin lantern.

You have delivered the message to him now. There are no more mistakes, and no more misunderstandings. The cabin is nearing pitch black with the absence of the lantern's light. Despite this, you can clearly see his eyes fall at the news. Hurt. Denial. Rage. So much more than that in his eyes. And yet, there's not even a second of peace for you before you feel yourself being slammed through the dinner table. Your breath hitches. There's a large cut down your back now, and blood is staining your clothes. This doesn't bother you. You are sure of your resolve; you are ready to fight him, regardless of the cost to yourself. You move your hand around behind you, trying to locate a weapon to retaliate with. But just as you grasp the shell of the now-extinguished lantern, your opponent steps forward. Your murmurs and curses of 'tyrant' cease, and you watch as he stands straight up, bearing a glare you have never before seen. He composes himself slowly, as if trying to keep anger out of his words.

"I hold a greater understanding of this world than you, America. Know this: if you make the foolish choice to fight me, you will fall."

You will fall, America.

You will fall.

His—no—_your_ rifle is clutched in your hands, and your teeth suddenly find themselves clenched in a rage absent only minutes before. The rain pounding on the tree is the only thing you can hear. It's loud, and reverberating in your ears. You feel angry. Angry at your opponent for claiming such a sure victory. Angry that he is probably right. Angry at the realization that no matter the outcome of this war, nothing will ever be the same. The times you spent with him laughing in cornfields will never occur again. Ever.

But it doesn't matter. None of that matters anymore. Only one thought crosses your mind now:

Tyrant.

He is a tyrant.

So maybe you will fall. But only after you have fought with all your might. Only after your soldiers and citizens have fallen dead to the ground fighting for the cause they think to be right. Only after his soldiers have fallen with them. You will fall, yes! But only after him.

The rain falls here, and you can't help but wonder if everything must end just as the rain does; starting so high, with such grace and intention, and ending ultimately in a crash.

Your spirit, his control, the rain. All of it will fall. The only variable left unknown is the time. But that's fine. You will be waiting. You will wait as long as it takes.

With a passion that hasn't alighted itself in weeks, you stand. The fire inside you empowering your speech, you yell.

"Come, England! Come and watch me fall!"


End file.
